Read Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington Page 51

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  That moment lasted a lifetime. Beck hung in the air, unmoving but somehow also tipping backwards. Rushing toward the ground without motion. Blood trailed like a comet’s tail from his mouth and eyes.

  The moment of falling sideways, the impact, the sickening cack Beck’s head made against the kitchen tiles. The sound. The image… They would be burned in Paddington’s mind for the rest of his life. He’d see them whenever he closed his eyes.

  Clarkson frowned, then pointed. “Was he supposed to do that?”

  McGregor rushed around the counter and bent down. “No pulse.” He rolled Beck onto his back; Paddington wished he hadn’t. The shock and pain were frozen on his face, visible even through the blood that covered it like paint flecks. A flick of brown hair poked him in the right eye.

  “Non-responsive,” McGregor said, fussing over the body. “He’s… dead.”

  “Well, that’ll save time,” Clarkson said. “Right?”

  Paddington couldn’t speak. Beck was dead. He wasn’t supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be beyond death. And he shouldn’t have died eating the Fruit of Life. Why would the Fruit of Life be toxic? Or… was this what the Three-God meant? That Beck was beyond death, now that he was on the other side of it?

  Had he just killed his brother and fulfilled the wrong prophecy?

  As the silence lengthened, Clarkson seemed to realise this wasn’t part of the plan and stopped talking. Everyone else had had the sense not to start.

  After a minute staring at the body, Paddington said, “Well that’s that then. I’ll take him to the castle.”

  “Are we still attacking?” Skylar asked.

  “What for?” Paddington asked her before looking back at Beck’s body. “This wasn’t one of their tricks. This is my fault.”

  “None of us saw this coming,” McGregor said. “The Fruit of Life shouldn’t have killed him. Unless I missed something.” He rushed to the Book, grabbed it, and starting rifling through pages. Pages he usually turned with such reverence and care. And now he all but ripped them in his haste.

  “We could still attack,” Truman said. “We came here to stop the vampires and this is still our best chance to do that. At the least, we could be your backup in case anything happens.”

  “Why would anything happen?” Paddington asked. “They just won.”

  “What about the next prophecy?” Clarkson said. “The one in the next Book, that we don’t have a copy of?”

  Paddington shrugged. “They need me and Lisa alive for that and the only way we’ll get Lisa back now is because they let us.”

  No one had anything else to say, it seemed.

  “Help me load him into the car,” Paddington said.

  “I’ll do it,” Mitchell said. Not the person Paddington had expected to lend a helping hand, but a welcome one. Mitchell knew how it felt to be responsible for the death of someone who had put his trust in him; three of Mitchell’s Team had died on Archi. Of all of them, Mitchell knew what he was going through.

  The Lancastrian placed his hands under Beck’s shoulders. Paddington took Beck’s knees and together they carried him to a jeep. The others hovered around them, opening the front door and the back seat then retreating into the dark again.

  “I’ll take him from here,” Paddington told them. “I’d… rather do this alone.” He didn’t need an audience.

  “I’ll come to the castle gates,” Mitchell said. “Just in case you need a hand.”

  Paddington nodded. He didn’t have the energy to argue, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Hopefully soon he would be back with Lisa, but until then he could use someone, anyone, beside him for comfort.

  He didn’t say goodbye to the Team or Will and Curt. He didn’t even realise Mitchell would drive until he’d pulled out of the driveway.

  How had he been so stupid? What had he missed? Could he have stopped this?

  Mitchell drove silently, a shadow leaving him to his thoughts. Paddington didn’t really want to be with them right now, but he couldn’t escape them. Any conversation would feel forced and trivial. Because it would be. What could Mitchell possibly say after Paddington had killed his brother? Betrayed his trust? Led him to his death?

  Thankfully the trip didn’t take long and soon Paddington opened the back door of the jeep and pulled Beck out. This time he carried Beck alone, pain in his shoulder be damned. What did it matter if the stab wound opened? What did anything matter? Paddington cradled Beck in his arms like a wife on her honeymoon. Someone had closed his eyes; that was nice. Mitchell stayed a step behind Paddington, the clomp of his boots reassuring in the dark. Not an audience, but he wasn’t alone.

  The bridge stretched ahead. The castle seemed a small thing at the other end, lights burning in the bailey. Were there Andrastes in there, tending their wounds? Was Lisa in there, tied up, gagged, a hostage? Was a vampire watching him through the scope of a rifle?

  Probably. There was nothing Paddington could do about it. Nothing but focus on keeping his footing on the slippery stones.

  Beck’s weight pressed down on him, making his arms ache. He’d never carried anyone more than a few steps, not since childhood piggybacks. Not with an again-bleeding wound in the muscle of one arm. And certainly no one that was a… a dead weight…

  Oh Three-God. Why?

  Why him? Why Beck? What had he done to offend the Gods? What was his crime? That he’d liked a girl and finally had the courage to say it? That he’d been a good person? Or just that he’d been Paddington’s brother? Was that crime enough to merit an execution? Had simply sharing blood and parentage marked him down for a life of hardship and death?

  Because that wasn’t fair! It wasn’t Beck’s fault, it was Paddington’s. Why wasn’t the punishment his? That would be fair, and just, and good, and all those other words his school theology teachers had told him the Three-God was. But this… this was uncaring, or uninvolved. Even petty or mean. How could the Three-God be that as well?

  Not that theology would change the fact that the heavy lump in his arms had been a living, breathing human being fifteen minutes ago. Now he was ju—

  Paddington stumbled to his knees. He hadn’t seen where the shot came from – some unseen window, no doubt – but he heard its crack all around him. He felt the intense heat in his chest and the spreading cold. His left arm gave out and dropped Beck’s body onto the bridge beside him. Paddington stared at it as he tried to take a final ragged breath.

  Then he fell forward and in the centre of the stone bridge an hour before dawn, James Paddington died.